


Revenant

by doctorwhoatson



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-09
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2017-11-18 06:36:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorwhoatson/pseuds/doctorwhoatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson thought a flat haunted by the ghost of its previous tenant would bring something interesting to his life. Another war was not what he was expecting at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cold

**Author's Note:**

> John Watson really hopes his new flat is as haunted as London seems to think it is.

 

The never ending tapping of the rain falling on the roof echoed through 221B Baker Street. John Watson sat on a crooked chair next to the window. He watched as people ran by, covering the top of their heads with their arms to keep from getting wet. _As if that helped at all_. Some others hurried through the street with their big umbrellas and raincoats. There was a sense of gloom passing over the cold city that day that seemed to give the old doctor an even more sullen mood than usual.

John sighed against the window, fogging it up and creating a white screen on the glass. John liked these. It created a whole blank page for him to quickly write something on it before it started shrinking and then disappeared. A sort of challenge.

It wasn’t much, but for John Watson, nothing was ever much. Life was boring. Dull. Nothing happened to him. Nothing had ever happened to him since he had come back to London.

John fogged up the glass again and quickly wrote his name. He watched as it quickly vanished from sight. A quick comparison passed through his head. His life was this glass and he was what he wrote on it. And he would soon disappear, too. Hmm. Maybe he should write a book or something. Sad poems. A very dramatic suicide note…

Shaking his head, he pushed himself off the window and walked lazily towards the kitchen, put on the kettle and sat on the edge of an old plastic chair facing the stove. He scanned his surroundings for a while, his eyes stopping on the empty seat at the center of the flat.

Empty.

“Are you there?”

His own voice almost startled him. Living alone didn’t get you many chances to talk. He hadn’t talked in so long. He didn’t have much to say to nothingness. And, apparently, nothingness didn’t have much to say to him, either.

“Alright,” he sighed.

Minutes later, John found himself sitting once again at the crooked chair by the window, a cup of tea in hand and his eyes still glued to the empty seat.

It had been just three months since he had moved into 221B Baker Street. His dull life somehow leading him to believe that a haunted flat could bring something interesting to his life.

Haunted. He chuckled.

Mike Stamford, the papers, the landlady and her ridiculously low rent. It had all promised him an exciting happening. Something to do, something to look forward to. Three people had already run out of this flat completely terrified. They had all begged him to stay away from the flat, even Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, had warned him at least five times before giving him the key to his new home. The newspaper had called him several times after moving in, asking if anything unusual had happened to him yet. Of course not. Nothing happened to him. Not even here. They stopped calling after one month. No one cared anymore.

“Are you there?” he tried again.

The silence that always followed made his stomach curl in agony and his leg scream in pain.

John groaned and put his cup aside to pull his leg up. He tried to soothe it by massaging it, but it just kept hurting more and more. Everyday a little more.

After a while, he finally gave up and let his leg fall back to the floor with a loud thud.

Pain.

He hissed and cursed.

John stood up, his arm reaching out to his cane, but it was too far and his leg hurt too much. Two steps and he fell back down, knocking over the chair and landing painfully on the hard floor, his leg refusing to move anymore. John cried in pain and then, with an effort that took most of his energy, crawled towards the sofa, where he pushed himself up enough to rest his head on a dusty cushion. His whole body trembled and his eyes soon shut close, tears quietly rolling down his cheeks.

The rain kept on softly falling on the roof above him.

-

Murray. Good Murray. He liked him. He was always so dedicated and devoted to him. He fancied himself his best friend. And he was. John really liked him and he enjoyed his company. He always had such interesting stories to tell him. About his family. About his friends and girlfriend back home. About his comrades. About anything, really. Silence didn’t exist when Murray was near him. His words falling out of his mouth as often as air went into his lungs.

He dreamed of him a lot. About him and the war. About him and the bullets. About him and his shoulder.

Because Bill Murray saved his life. He saved his life and then went back and got himself killed. Because he owed Murray his life and he never got the chance to thank him.

He had been good.

-

John woke up the next morning in the same spot. His leg still hurt. As well as the rest of his body.

_Great._

The sunlight coming from the window blinded his swollen eyes. He pushed himself up and groaned as every muscle in his body protested and screamed at him for falling asleep in such an awkward position.

He was about to head to the shower when he noticed a small piece of paper stuck on his jumper. He carefully grabbed it and turned it over in his hands. His eyes almost popped out as he read the couple of neatly written words printed on it.

_I’m here._

-

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Who?”

Mrs. Hudson filled both cups before placing the flowery teapot back on the small table. She sat across John and took a sip of her tea with John following her movements.

“He used to live here some years ago, he and his flatmate,” the landlady continued, a kind smile on her lips. “Both were very peculiar people. Sherlock, especially. He was kind, but very…odd.”

“Odd?”

“Well, he did very strange things,” she leaned over and whispered. “He used to keep human heads in the fridge.”

John raised his eyebrows. “I don’t think odd is the right word, then.”

Mrs. Hudson chuckled. “He said they were all for an experiment or something. I never quite knew what his real job was. One day he was a detective, another day he was just a consultant. He was a very busy man, for sure.”

“What happened to him?”

The old woman’s face fell and her hands fumbled nervously around her cup. John had read about it in the papers, about Sherlock, at least. He hadn’t know there had been a flatmate. But even then, they would just vaguely mention the man’s name, never truly going into what really happened. Most of them just referred to him as-

“The Baker Street ghost,” Mrs. Hudson spoke, then took another sip of her tea. “Seems all so ridiculous to me, but…so many people can’t be wrong, can they?”

“What happened?” John asked again.

The landlady sighed and drank the whole contents of her cup before answering.

“He died,” she choked. “Suicide, they said. Found him lying dead in his bedroom on a pool of blood and a gun in his hand.” The old lady stood up and walked around the kitchen for a couple of minutes until she composed herself. “It was horrible, Dr. Watson, you should have seen his face. He-”

John stood by her now, a comforting arm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-”

“He was a nice man,” she quickly added. “I really don’t know why he did it. Nobody ever knew. Oh, Sherlock.”

John bit his lip thoughtfully.

-

Once back in his room, John changed into his pajamas and slid into his neatly made bed. He turned to his bedside table and stared at the small piece of paper that had appeared on him a couple of days back.

_I’m here._

The words swirled around John’s mind and a sense of excitement and confusion and wonder overtook his whole body. He loved it. If only it could happen again. He wanted to get more signals from whoever, or whatever, this was, but he didn’t know what to do. How to summon something that you weren’t even sure existed? Was _summon_ even the right word?

He didn’t have to wait much longer, though, for that very same night he was awoken in the middle of the night by a strong storm pounding on his window, followed by a loud clank and the sound of strong wind sending his things flying around at the living room.

John sprang out of his bed and ran towards the noise. One of the windows was wide open, letting the storm and the wind make their way into the flat. He quickly ran to it and shut it closed, making sure it was well bolted this time.

John groaned as he took notice of the various objects the wind had turned over. The storm was still going on and the small event had woken him up completely. He wouldn’t be able to fall asleep again. Might as well do something useful, then.

With a grunt, he fell to his knees and began picking everything up.

John’s head snapped up as a shuffling noise came from the kitchen. He stared into the darkness, waiting for another noise to come. Only silence followed. The doctor, abandoning his cleaning up task, slowly stood from the floor and carefully tiptoed to the kitchen.

The whole flat was almost completely dark; the only light coming from the occasional lightning outside, which granted him glimpses of something moving around. Without taking his eyes off the darkness, he blindly grabbed at the wall until he found the light switch.

He flipped it on.

The sudden light that flooded the room blinded him for a couple of seconds, almost making him miss the shadow that quickly slid out of the kitchen and into the narrow hall that led to his room.

John stepped back, startled. His heart raced in his chest. Fear. Uncertainty. Wonder.

John smiled.

Excitement.

This was what he had been waiting for. Whatever it was, he would find it. He would get to the bottom of this. Then…he had no idea. Didn’t matter right now.

He quickly reached for his walking cane and held it up as protection. Careful not to bump into anything, he walked towards his room, cane firmly held between his hands, ready to attack if it was necessary.

The storm kept pounding on the windows, making him wonder which sounds came from the rain and which came from the other side of his door.

John took a deep breath before pushing the door open. The room was just as he had left it, except for a small puddle in the middle of the room. He noticed, then, the traces of water that went all the way back into the kitchen and then towards the window. Whatever was that was in his room had come from outside, then.

Would it be dangerous? Risky?

He sure hoped so.

He took another step into the room, his eyes following the trail of water on the floor. It led him to the closet door.

Silence fell over the room. John’s breathing almost non-existent now.

He waited for a sound. Something.

But nothing happened.

He took a deep breath.

“Are you there?”

Since a young age, John had always been carefully reckless. That was how his mother described him. John and Harry had always loved to go out and do dangerous things, like climbing ridiculously tall trees, jumping off tall rocks, running away from their parents and into the crowd on busy streets. They loved it, they loved the risk, and no matter how bruised and scratched and scared they got, they would always gladly do it again. But somewhere inside John there was a voice that enjoyed telling him how stupid and reckless he was being. Not that it did anything to stop him. Harry, unfortunately, lacked of this voice, so it had always been his job to warn and keep both of them safe. To stop themselves from going too far. He never quite knew how that worked. His own mind gave John every possible bad thing that could happen, every scar he could end up with, every slip that could be made, every single possibility that could end up with someone getting hurt. Once his mind was done sorting out and leveling the possible the danger, another voice would come in and convince hi to continue anyway. He would smile and jump right at it. Consequences be damned. But considered. And then discarded.

Didn't make much sense to him, but he still appreciated the first voice for trying.

Bot voices had left some time ago, though. The moment that bullet tore at his flesh, to be exact. Because at that moment, John Watson died. The problem was that his body had kept going without him.

From the moment that bullet had pierced his skin and left him lying on the battlefield, right at the hands of the enemy, his mind had calmly informed him he was going to die. No one was around to help him with his injury, his own hands limited by the creeping unconsciousness and the lack of his prominent arm. Senses leaving him as rapidly as his blood, John Watson opened his arms to death that day. He had been ready. Ready to die.

However, life has funny ways of turning the tables. His trusted orderly and friend, Murray, had come to his aid during his last moments of awareness. That was the last thing his mind registered. Bullets flying all around. Murray’s face. Blood. Pain.

He woke up several days later in a hospital bed, a horrific fever taking over his body mixed with lack of blood and dehydration. And grief. Murray was dead.

Mind telling him to give up, body fighting to survive. John Watson kept going.

Months later, he found himself sitting at a peaceful hotel bed, staring at a wall.

How ready he had been to die. How his mind had assured him he would not make it. Yet he did. And now he didn’t know what to do with himself. The voice in his head had stopped driving him into danger simply because there was no danger to run to. No risks. Nothing happened. Nothing.

Then the second voice made its reappearance when he heard of Baker Street. _Haunted? Go for it!_ It had seemed so silly, but in a world wrapped around rules and boring civilian life, he couldn’t miss the chance.

That same voice was back once more, encouraging him to step forward again. Into the room. Call to whoever was in there.

“Please, answer me.”

Silence.

Complete and nerve-wrecking silence.

He could feel the pain in his leg coming back. His body starting to tremble. Maybe all this was just a crazy invention of his mind. Maybe he was finally losing it. Maybe…

“I’m here.”

John’s heart pounded in his chest.

_Oh, God._

John let out a nervous laugh. His body relaxed and his breathing went back to normal. Weird. Shouldn’t it be the other way around? Someone, a man by the sound of it, had just broken into his flat, for crying out loud! Someone had come in and was now hiding inside his closet. He could be a murderer. He could be dangerous.

The doctor lowered his weapon and tossed it to the bed.

“Um, aren’t you cold?”

There was some shifting inside the closet, but the door didn’t open. John kept his feet glued to the floor. He had no idea what he was doing or saying, but honestly, his mind had never worked properly anyway.

The voice replied again, this time almost as a whisper. “I’m sick.”

John almost giggled, his whole body trembling with excitement. Yeah, definitely lost it.

“Um, you know, I’m a doctor. I can help you.”

There was some shuffling inside the small closet, but no reply came.

“If you don’t want me to see you, that’s fine.” John finally said, hoping, no, _needing_ the voice to speak again. “There are medicines in the kitchen cupboard, and, um, you can take some of my clothes, too, if you want- if you need them.”

Another minute of silence passed and John almost whimpered in desperation.

“You can also use the shower if you need to,” he fumbled with his hands nervously. _Please, speak. Please, prove I’m not crazy, please_. “Tea! I can make tea…for you. If you want.”

A low chuckle came from the other side of the door. John sighed in relief.

“Turn around, then.”

John threw an uncertain glance at the small door before turning his back to it. As he faced the wall, the small creak of the door opening came from behind him. John smiled, doing his best to not turn to whoever was behind him. Approaching.

_You’re going to get yourself killed, Watson._

John almost gasped as two hands came around him and wrapped a cloth around his eyes.

“Are you going to kill me?”

John was surprised at how excited his voice had come out. Jesus, he could very well be living his last minutes of life and he was actually enjoying it. He was excited. If he came out of this alive, he was going back to his psychiatrist.

“Why would I do that?”

The voice spoke behind him. He was so close John could feel his breath on his neck. It sent shivers through his body. The doctor inside him, though, was more concerned on how weak and hoarse the voice sounded.

In yet another reckless act, he turned around to face the figure and raised his hand towards it as slow as he could as to not scare him off. He couldn’t see anything, so he carefully moved his hand in front of him until he found the man’s face. Slowly, he moved his fingers up until he reached the forehead and then he pressed his palm across it. He was tall. And very sick.

“You’re burning up.”

“Mm.”

“You need to get out of these,” John said as he felt the man’s soaking clothes with his other hand. “There are clothes in my top drawer you could use. Take a shower and change into something warm. I’ll get you some medicine and then you’ll need to rest.”

It was strange how his doctor instincts could surface so easily while his survival instincts kept only watching from afar.

The voice didn’t reply and the man didn’t move. The cloth was still covering his eyes, but he knew the man was looking at him. He could feel his gaze all over him and it made him shudder a bit.

“Do you promise not to look?” the voice whispered.

_If that means you won’t leave and leave me to die alone in my boredom and insanity..._ John smiled. “I promise.”

Cold hands grabbed him by the shoulders and led him to the bed, sitting him at the edge of it.

“You have five minutes to go get the medicine and then come back to this spot.”

“Can I take the blindfold off?”

“Only when necessary. But you can’t see me. If you do…I’ll kill you.”

John almost laughed. _Insane, I’m insane_.

He heard some shifting about the room and then his drawers being opened and closed again. The soft footsteps soon receded, followed by the sound of the bathroom door shutting close. _Now._

He pulled the cloth over his head and stood up from the bed. The sound of the shower came from the bathroom. Five minutes.

John quickly walked to the kitchen. He fumbled around some bottles and, finally choosing the appropriate one, popped two pills into his hand and then made for a glass of water. Three minutes later, he was back in his room, a glass of water and a couple of pills on the bedside table. His blindfold back over his eyes.

_Wow, Watson. Really?_

He heard the shower stop and then the footsteps coming back into the room. He listened as the man dressed into his clothes. John’s heart pounded wildly inside his chest. His leg was not hurting at all and he was sure he was smiling like an idiot.

He kept listening as the man came back, took the pills and drank the water. He could feel the man moving around him, he could feel his gaze upon him. Shivers.

After what seemed like an eternity of footsteps and shifting around, the voice finally spoke again.

“There’s another room upstairs. I’ll go rest in there. Don’t try to go in.”

“Alright.”

He listened as the mysterious man walked towards the door, but just before leaving he turned around again. His eyes on him again.

“And, um, thank you.”

The man left.

John made sure enough time passed before he slowly uncovered his eyes. The room was empty. For a moment he wondered if he was dreaming.

So, someone had gotten into his flat, blindfolded him and made him promise not to look at him. John, in return, had given him medicine, had let him use his shower, his clothes, and now he was letting him sleep here.

John wondered how early he should wake up to make breakfast. It had to be fast enough to have time to cover his eyes again before the man woke up. He glanced at his bedside clock and slid back to bed.

_John Watson, there is something definitely wrong with you._


	2. Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John hates his job.

It was still raining.

John discovered a big scratch on one of the windows that day. He spent some time coming up with theories on how it could have gotten there. He touched the damaged glass and watched as his hand left an imprint on it. Cold.

He sighed and turned back to the flat. Everything was in order. Not a thing out of place. He didn’t like it.

There was a knock at his door and John almost hurled himself onto the door to open it. Mrs. Hudson, at the other side, jumped back at the sudden fling of the door and placed a small hand over her chest.

“Oh, dear!”

John tried to hide his disappointment as best as he could. _He’s not going to come and knock. Of course he’s not._

“Sorry, I just…I’m late for work,” John said, trying to excuse himself away from the woman’s worried eyes.

“Oh, alright,” Mrs. Hudson let him walk around her but followed him to the door. “I just wanted to ask you…are you using the room upstairs?”

John stopped at the bottom of the stairs and turned to her. Had she found out he let a stranger use the room a week ago? Was the mysterious man still using the room? He never checked. He had disappeared the next day and he hadn’t shown up ever since. John had left his windows open, his door unlocked. He had called to him, blindfolded himself and sat at his bed for hours. The man with the voice didn’t come back and John didn’t want to check the room upstairs. He feared to see the empty room. Knowing he was not there.

The note he kept in his pocket suddenly felt very heavy.

_I’m here._

“Um, why do you ask?” John managed to ask.

Mrs. Hudson reached him at the bottom of the stairs. “Oh, well, my daughter is coming to visit for a couple of days and I would just like her to be comfortable. If you’re not using the room, maybe she could stay there.”

“Oh.” He didn’t even know Mrs. Hudson had a daughter. He didn’t want her to stay in that room, though. What if _he_ came back? What if _he_ needed to sleep in there again? John wondered if he was still sick. Roaming the streets with fever. Maybe he had a home. Maybe he had a family. Were they okay? What if they were homeless? Maybe John should go out and look for him. Actually, he would have done that already if he even knew how the man looked like. Other than his voice, the man had left absolutely no trace of who he was.

“Dr. Watson?”

Was he even real? What if he had just imagined it all? What if he had been dreaming? No. He couldn’t have dreamt all that. The blindfold was still there. The empty glass of water. The missing pills. The water on the floor. The man had even gotten some of his clothes in the closet wet and muddy when he had hid in there. He was real. And he was still out there. Somewhere.

“John, are you alright?”

John slowly turned to the worried woman in front of him and blinked a few times, trying to bring himself back to the present. What were they talking about? Oh, right. Her daughter. The man. The room.

“Um, no,” John blurted out. “I’m not using the room.”

He glanced at the stairs one more time before turning on his heel and going outside.

-

Sarah. They dated for a week, but it didn’t work out. Now they were friends. Awkward friends. It was still kind of nice. Having someone to talk to. Even if they talked about nothing. John wanted to say so many things, mostly things that would buy him a place at some mental center. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. He could be his emotionally wrecked self in there.

“Doing anything tonight?”

Sarah always invited him out to hang out with her friends. John wished she wouldn’t. He was running out of excuses.

“I’ll be busy helping my landlady with some repairs at the flat,” John lied, trying his best to look apologetic. “Sorry.”

“Oh, alright,” Sarah shrugged. John was pretty sure she knew when he lied. “Next time, then.”

“Next time,” John smiled.

He didn’t like his job.

-

“Oh, John! You’re back!” Mrs. Hudson walked to him and gave him a quick hug. John frowned in confusion until he caught sight of a young woman standing behind his landlady. Her daughter, he guessed. That was fast.

The ecstatic look on Mrs. Hudson’s face told him how little her daughter probably visited her.

“John, this is my daughter, Violet,” Mrs. Hudson announced, reaching for the young girl and bringing her closer to John, who merely smiled and shook her hand.

She was pretty. Very pretty. Her fine freckled face was neatly framed with a cascade of long chestnut hair. Her hands were thin and her large green eyes were watchful. John was amazed by how pretty she was that it took him a while to realize she was talking to him. What was she saying? Oh, yeah. Nice to meet you.

“Nice you meet you, too.”

Violet smiled and it took him another while to notice that she had talked again. What did she say?

“Um…”

“Oh, leave the poor man, Violet. He must be tired,” Mrs. Hudson suddenly spoke, reminding John of her presence and startling him a little.

“Yeah, sorry,” John sighed and smiled. “Long day.”

“Oh, I understand, don’t worry,” Violet bent down to take her bag from the floor. He noticed the initials VH hanging on a label. Violet Hudson, maybe? Was she single? How old was she? Would Mrs. Hudson mind if he asked her out? Why was he so insistent on asking every pretty girl he met out? It never worked out. He was a mess.

“Let me help you with that,” John offered, reaching for her bag. Violet stepped back, her eyes hardening for a second before returning to their kind look. John wondered if he had just imagined it.

“It’s fine!” Violet smiled, her bright face blinding John for a minute. “You seem tired and it’s not that heavy, don’t worry.”

“Yeah…alright.”

It wouldn’t work out. Better let this one go. She probably already had a good relationship with someone else out there. He would be damned if he let yet another woman get all tangled up with his horrible habits and broken self.

Violet flashed another smile at him before following Mrs. Hudson to the room upstairs. John watched them go into the room and waited at the bottom of the stairs for a short moment. He expected them to run out at any moment, blaming him for letting strangers in. What if the room was empty? What if he had stolen everything in that room? He should have checked.

After a couple of minutes, neither came out of the room. He was safe then.

John let out a heavy sigh and went back to his own rooms.

-

_I’m here._

_I’m here._

“No, you’re not,” John huffed.

He let the little scrap of paper fall to the floor as he turned over on his bed. His head hurt. His leg hurt.

It was still raining. It seemed like it would never stop raining. Was it always really raining or was it only raining when he turned to the window? He couldn’t tell.

Boring. Everything was boring. His job was boring.

He tried to remember those times when being a doctor had seemed such an exciting idea. It hadn’t really been his thing after all. It’s not that he didn’t like it, he loved it, but it was not enough. Nothing had ever been enough. Until he had joined the army.

God, he missed those days. He missed the thrill, the danger, the risks…

His hand reached for his wounded shoulder.

-

John didn’t notice when he fell asleep and woke up anymore. He barely noticed the time. Late for work again. He wondered if he should just quit already. Who cared about money, who cared about anything.

John chuckled. He was being the very kind of person he had sworn himself not to be. The kind of person he had promised his parents he wouldn’t become. The kind of person Harry had been those last years before her drink addiction had driven her to her death.

Maybe it ran in the family.

John needed to find a good reason to keep going.

And some tea.

He lazily slid out of bed and walked to the kitchen. After putting the kettle on, he started to randomly rummage through the kitchen drawers and cupboards. He wasn’t surprised by their almost emptiness. He didn’t have much and he didn’t need much as long as he lived alone, something that was not likely to change soon.

Cups. A couple of plates. Dirt. He needed to clean.

Finally, he opened the last drawer. A couple of spoons. A couple of forks. A couple of different kinds of knives.

John slowly pulled out one of the latter. He didn’t remember ever using it. The blade was too big for any of his meals. He always used smaller ones, even when a bigger one was needed. No real reason behind it.

John frowned as the kettle boiled. He threw the knife back into the drawer and turned to the stove, only to notice a thin trail of red liquid sliding around his wrist. He turned back to the drawer and then to his hand, which was now adorned with a big cut across it that kept bleeding over his palm.

John looked at his wound for a couple of seconds before his doctor instincts kicked in and he rushed for the sink and his first aid kit.

Minutes later, he was drinking his tea while looking at his bandaged hand. What the hell had just happened?

-

John woke up with a start. His head felt heavy and his eyes burned. It was late and it was already dark outside. Rain again. Where was he? Oh, right. The couch. The TV was on. He didn’t go to work.

John groaned.

It took him ten minutes to turn the TV off and walk back to his bed.

He flopped down on the soft covers and wriggled himself under them.  He just wanted to sleep and never wake up until there was something interesting going on. Maybe he could spend the rest of his money doing extreme sports or something. Throw himself off a helicopter. He’d done that, back in Afghanistan. Hot wind on his face, sand, the sun, heavy equipment over his shoulders……

Not more than half an hour later, he woke up again with the cold wind from outside washing over him. Wait. He noticed the window was open and watched as the cold rain freely got in and over his bed.

_How...?_

John quickly jumped out of bed and shut the window closed. Had he left it open? He didn’t remember.

A loud noise came from the kitchen and John’s heart leapt up as he hurried out into the kitchen. The flat was dark. The curtains were drawn and there was very little light.

“You’re out of milk.”

John felt his heart stop for a moment. He was back. He was here.

_I’m here._

John almost squealed.

“You’re here.”

“Obviously.”

_God, keep talking. Never stop talking._

“Um…are you feeling better?” John took a step towards the voice. He could hear him walking around the living room. Was he stealing his things? There’s nothing of value in there anyway. Or anywhere in the flat.

“Yes.”

“Oh, um…that’s good.”

John felt his way across the kitchen until he reached the wall. He lifted his hand to turn the lights on, but a hand grabbed him by the wrist, stopping him.  John gasped.

“Don’t.”

The voice was so close again. He could feel the man hovering over him. He was still holding his wrist. His skin was wet. He had come from outside then. The window. He had come through his bedroom’s window.

“Why?”

“Because then I’d have to kill you.”

“Why?”

The hand dropped his wrist and John almost whimpered.

“Don’t ask questions.”

John quickly reached forwards, but the figure was gone. He turned around, urging his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He could see a shadow moving around and his trained ears easily detected his steps. John walked towards it, following it as best as he could.

“I want to see you.”

“No.”

“Why are you here?”

The figure turned towards the windows. He was leaving. No.

_No._

“No!”

The last thing John remembered was running towards a shadow, arms outstretched in front of him, then something catching his foot, the noise of something falling and his name being called, then something hit his head.

-

John slowly opened his eyes. His head pounded horribly so he closed them again. He suddenly remembered he hadn’t eaten in days. Tea. Just tea. Tea was good. He wanted some tea…

“John.”

His eyes flew open.

_He’s still here._

It was still dark and he could still listen to the rain outside. And he was on his bed. John reached up to his aching head and found it bandaged. Badly bandaged.

“What…?”

“You tripped,” the voice spoke. “Knocked over a table and a lamp fell on your head.”

“Oh.” Stupid. His head pounded and he felt sick, days of sleeping and eating badly punching him everywhere.

“You’re a doctor, why don’t you take care of yourself?”

He turned to the voice and noticed the dark figure looming over him. Watching him. He couldn’t quite make out his features, but he could see his outline. Hair, face… John’s head spun.

“I’m gonna be sick,” John blurted out right before jumping out of bed and reaching for the bin at the side of his bed. He emptied the few contents of his stomach in it and groaned.

_Way to go, Watson._

He felt the figure behind him walk around him and towards the window.

“Please!”

The figure stopped.

“Please, don’t go,” John begged. His hands clutching at the bin. His stomach, his head, his leg, his shoulder, everything hurt. He just wanted to curl up and sleep. But he couldn’t let this stranger go like this.

“Why?”

John sat back and rested his head on the edge of his bed. He closed his eyes as his head kept spinning around.

“Just…” He sighed. “Tell me your name.”

Silence fell over the room. John tried opening his eyes, but every time he tried it, his head protested painfully, so he decided against it. Minutes kept ticking by and John wondered if the man had left already. He didn’t notice he was falling back asleep when suddenly the deep voice echoed around the room, followed by the quick sound of the window sliding open and closed again.

“My name was Sherlock Holmes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasn't going to update yet but...well, yeah. Hope you guys are not finding this..too weird?? First chapters are kind of vague, but everything has its reasons, just you wait :D


	3. Photos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wants to see the ghost.

“Do you have any pictures of him?”

Mrs. Hudson tilted her head thoughtfully and shook her head. “Sorry, John. I don’t think I’ve got any.”

_Of course not._

John pressed his lips together and gave a quick nod.

“You could go ask at Scotland Yard,” his landlady suggested as she kept dusting around her flat. “Why do you want a picture of Sherlock?”

“Oh, no real reason,” John shrugged, trying his best to look as uninterested as he could. “Why Scotland Yard?”

“Well, he used to go there a lot,” Mrs. Hudson explained, turning to look at John. “There was someone in particular who came by a lot from there, too. Inspector Lestrade, I believe he was.”

“DI Lestrade?” John’s eyes widened. “The one in charge of the Baker Street incidents case?” 

“Yes, that’s the one,” Mrs. Hudson smiled. “He was always calling for Sherlock, they seemed like good friends.”

John grinned. He knew Lestrade since he had moved into 221B. He had his number; he knew where to find his office. _Perfect._

“It was great talking to you, Mrs. Hudson!”

He hadn’t slept all night thinking of the man that had, yet again, invaded his flat. John didn’t know what was going on, but he was excited. The man had identified himself as the supposedly dead Sherlock Holmes. Not only that, he had used past tense. _My name was Sherlock Holmes_. Why _was_?

John needed to see a picture of him. He had caught a glimpse of the man’s face in the dark. His eyes hadn’t been able to make out much, but he could still remember how the soft lights from the window had traced some remarkable cheekbones and some dark curls on his head. John believed that he could recognize him if he saw a picture of him.

The Internet had not helped much. The few photos he had found had been of the detective’s dead body lying on a pool of blood. His face was bloodied and most pictures only focused on the bullet wound on his head or his hand still holding onto the responsible weapon. The rest showed him either covering his face or in a very bad quality that didn’t give John much detail on his looks. He hadn’t been that popular, it seemed.

John was beaming as he walked towards his door. When he opened it, though, he found Violet standing at the other side, arms crossed and her eyes suspicious.

“Where are you going?”

John frowned. _What?_

“Um…out?”

Violet eyed him for a while before slowly stepping back to let him out. “Don’t go looking for trouble, John.”

John watched her as she walked back into her mother’s flat and closed the door behind her.

_What?_

 

-

 

“John!”

Lestrade sprang out of his chair and walked up to him as John entered his office. He shook his hand and offered him the seat at his desk. “Are you alright? Did something happen?”

John didn’t understand Lestrade’s worried face until he noticed that the DI was looking at his bruised forehead and his bandaged head. _Oh, right!_

“Oh, um, yeah,” John shook his hand in dismissal. “I’m alright, don’t worry.”

“What the hell happened?”

“I…tripped.” John scoffed. It really sounded like a lame excuse, but it had been exactly what had happened. Mrs. Hudson had believed him anyway. What caused him to trip, well, that was another thing. Lestrade didn’t look convinced.

“Can I help you with anything?”

John took a deep breath and nodded.

“Yeah, actually, I would like to know more about this Sherlock Holmes.”

Lestrade eyed him for a minute before retaking the seat behind his desk. He leaned back, never taking his eyes off John. 

“Why?”

“Well…” John didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t send him straight to a mental hospital. “I just want to know more about the person who helped me afford the rent.”

_Wow, Watson. Really?_

Lestrade raised his eyebrows.

“I mean, this whole ghost story…you don’t really believe it, do you?”

The DI sighed and leaned over his desk, his gaze never leaving John.

“After all that has happened since his death, I really don’t know what to believe anymore.”

“You were friends with him, weren’t you?”

Lestrade chuckled. “He wouldn’t have used the word ‘friend’, but yeah. Kind of.”

“You don’t happen to have…” John hoped he didn’t look that desperate. “A picture of him?”

The detective held his eyes on him for some long seconds before an amused glint appeared in his eyes.

“You’ve seen it.”

John chuckled. “I need to see what he looked like.”

Lestrade covered his face with his hands and laughed. “Oh, God. I thought that this whole ghost thing was finally over!”

John let out a forced chuckle.

“Give me a moment…”

John waited patiently and watched as the DI rummaged through his desk drawers before finally pulling out a thin black envelope and handed it to him.

_Sherlock Holmes_ , the label read.

“He never liked having photos of him taken. Some of my co-workers liked to annoy him by taking pictures of him whenever he was distracted and hanging them around the halls,” Lestrade smiled, warmth seeping into his eyes as his mind played flashbacks of the past, of the days when everything seemed okay. “After he died, well, I took them down and…I’ve kept them here."

This was it.

John wasn’t sure he wanted to see it after all. What if whoever entered his flat was just messing with him? What if it was just some kind of psycho who enjoyed playing with him? Someone who looked completely different to the man inside these pictures. What if everything turned out to be just a sick game someone was playing on him. A joke.

Someone out there must be laughing at him right now.

“John?”

John smiled as he traced the edges of the envelope with his fingers. “Can I take these home?”

Lestrade leant back on his seat, “Why?”

“Just for a couple of days, I’ll give them back, I promise,” John replied without offering an answer to Lestrade’s questioning stare. For some unfathomable reason, John wanted to take his time to open the envelope. This was the most exciting thing that had happened to him in a while and he wanted to make it last, even if it all ended up being a farce. He needed to keep his visitor’s real identity a mystery for just a little longer.

“Alright,” the inspector shrugged.

John smiled and rose from his seat, tucking the envelope inside his jacket.

“John, be careful, alright?” the taller man said as he walked John to the exit. “I don’t want you to end up like the rest..”

“And how is that?”

Lestrade shook his head. “Just take care, alright? And if you notice anything out of the ordinary…call me.”

 

-

 

John sighed in relief as he reached 221B. He always preferred to walk, even with his leg giving him troubles. He didn’t want to spend money he barely had on cabs or the tube, and it gave him great opportunities to relax and think. But mostly relax, he didn’t like to think too much. Not these days, not when he couldn’t figure out what to do with his life, not when his leg seemed to go from perfectly fine to painfully useless in a matter of seconds for reasons he rather not concentrate on too much. Not when he was so plagued by questions with unpleasant answers or none at all.

That didn’t mean walking didn’t leave him tired and aching for his seat and a good cup of tea. The sight of his door was always a great relief to him.

John was about to pull his key out of his pocket when the door suddenly flung open. A tall man stood by the frame. He had short auburn hair and large bright eyes that gave him a very attractive, cheery look. He seemed strongly built too, and his clothes looked as expensive as John’s whole rent.

“You must be John Watson,” the man spoke. His eyes scanned him in one quick motion and then he smiled, stretching out his hand to John. “Victor Trevor.”

John shook his hand. Strong grip. “Oh, um, hi.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m blocking your way!” the man who called himself Victor quickly stepped aside and held the door open for John. “Come on in.”

John shot an uncertain glance at the man before finally stepping into the building.

“I’m sorry, but what are you doing here and how do you know my name?”

Once John was inside, Victor closed the door and signaled to the stairs with a jerk of his chin. “My girlfriend told me about you.”

_Oh._

“You’re Violet’s boyfriend?” _Of course he is, Watson. Just look at him. Nice, young faces belonged together._

“Mrs. Hudson’s actually,” Victor grinned. “We’re going out tonight. Don’t tell her daughter.” 

John rolled his eyes.

At that moment, Violet emerged from the top room and walked down the stairs to where both men were. She was wearing a big coat over her shoulders that covered most of her body and her long hair was pulled up in a bun. John was sure he saw her scanning him for a moment before turning to her boyfriend.

“You’re awfully early,” Violet grinned, offering her hand to the young man, who carefully took it and planted a kiss on top of it. “Miss. Hunter, please, I am _always_ early.”

_Hunter._

Violet smiled and then turned back to John, her expression changing quickly from hopelessly in love to wary. “So, you two already introduced yourselves?”

John tried his best to look friendly. “Oh, um, yeah, your boyfriend. Good work.”

_What?_

Violet smiled with amusement. “Thanks?”

Victor chuckled and reached for the door. “Well, we have to go now. It was nice to meet you, Dr. Watson.”

After shaking hands with John again, the man grabbed Violet’s hand and left. John didn’t waste a second and swiftly walked up to his flat, closing the door behind him.

_Of course she had a boyfriend._

-

 

The rain was back, John noticed. It was fogging up his windows again.

He was almost out of tea bags and milk.

_Open it._

John looked at his wristwatch. He’d been lying on the couch for three hours now and he was getting kind of hungry. Maybe he could order some take away somewhere. Did he still have money? He needed to quit his job.

_Open it!_

“Dammit!”

John grabbed his cane and pushed himself off of the sofa, reaching for the still closed envelope. He was doing this. He was going to look at the man and end this whole thing once and for all.

He almost sent all the photos flying as he opened the paper wrapping with a little too much determination. John quickly scrambled to catch all the contents and arranged them back into a pile. His eyes fell on the couple of pictures on the top.

Abundant dark curls. Cheekbones. Gorgeous eyes. Long neck. Tall frame.

John felt his heart pounding in his chest as his surprisingly steady hands flickered through the pictures.

Sherlock Holmes.

Most pictures showed the man either glaring or trying to cover his face. Or both. His annoyance at the one holding the camera was obvious in every image and John felt himself smirking for a moment before remembering…

Dead. Holmes was dead.

No, he wasn’t. He couldn’t be. He had been here. He had entered his flat. He had taken his clothes. He had talked to him. He made him trip over half the flat. He had bandaged his head. He had written him a note.

_I’m here._

The Baker Street ghost.

John caught a glimpse of several newspaper articles behind the photos. He pulled one out and read it carefully. He had seen it before online. Lestrade and Stamford had shown him these when he first moved into 221B, articles about the previous tenants of this flat after Sherlock’s death.

_I couldn’t sleep, I felt watched all the time. Things moved, things disappeared…_

They had lived here no more than two months each and moved out in fear. Several others had come to ask for the flat as a challenge, but Mrs. Hudson had denied them entrance. She had grown tired of people only coming to try and see the ‘ghost’ who kept terrorizing people out of the flat.

_I would suddenly start feeling dizzy and then a figure would appear, out of nowhere, and it’d tell me to leave. To leave the flat._

She had kept the flat unavailable until the whole fuss about it being haunted had calmed down. John had been lucky to arrive to London and bump into Stamford before anyone else had taken interest in it again. For obvious reasons, she had lowered the rent and so John had been able to afford it. 

John read the articles again anyway. They all claimed to have seen horrible things. Noises at night. Visions. Blood stains…the typical ghost stories.

John turned to the pictures again. He carefully traced the outline of the man’s face with his finger, trying to memorize it.

A loud, sharp, sudden noise resonated through the small living room and startled John, making him stumble backwards and onto the couch. The pictures flew out of his grasp and swiftly fell around him. John raised his gaze and gasped, clutching at the armrests with his hands.

The face in the pictures was right there, staring down at the papers on the floor with a serious look on his face. His face, finally clear by the light of day, was covered in old scars. And his eyes…they looked almost white and for a moment John considered the idea of him actually being a ghost. _Could it be..?_

“You are too curious for your own good,” Sherlock Holmes finally spoke, bringing back that deep voice John had craved so much. It sent shivers through his body; it reminded him of the thrill he had felt when the man had blindfolded him. That voice and that feeling of uncertainty and fear and curiosity he had felt that night made John bite his lip in anticipation... “I told you not to look.”

John stared at him until the taller man finally fixed his eyes upon him, making his heart stop. 

“Photos don’t count,” John managed to blurt out. He was surprised at how steady his voice was, as opposed to his stumbling mind.

“Of course they count,” Sherlock said, leaning over John and trapping him under his thin frame and sharp gaze. “And I told you that I would kill you if you looked.”

John shuddered as he felt the man’s breath brush over his face. _Good God._

“You looked.”

John’s eyes fluttered closed. He could feel Sherlock’s breath around him, as if he were trying to find something in his face. Whatever it was he was looking for, John hoped he never found it, so he could keep getting closer and closer.

And closer.

John felt soft fingers brushing over his bruised forehead and he let out a sound that was too much like a purr. John cringed at that and opened his eyes. Sherlock backed away.

“You’re not dead.”

The words left John’s lips before he could even organize his thoughts. The taller man smirked and swiftly took the seat across him.

“Obviously.”

John watched in amazement as the man adorned the seat in front of him. It felt as if he had always belonged there. He probably did.

“Why?”

Sherlock looked pointedly at him. He clasped his hands together and placed them under his chin.

“Not of your concern.”

“You’re breaking into my flat.”

“It’s _my_ flat.”

“Not anymore. You’re dead.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. “I thought we had agreed I was not dead?”

“You died. Right there.”

Both men turned to the door that led to the bedroom, where the detective’s body had laid three years ago. Where the pool of his blood had left an almost invisible trace. If you paid close attention, you could still see the outline of it. John had stared at it for too long in the past few days. 

Sherlock turned back to the doctor and smirked. “Did I?”

For a long while, both men just looked at each other from across their seats. Silence stretched around them for so long John’s ears buzzed.

“I have to go,” Sherlock finally spoke, but made no move to leave.

John tensed up.

“Are you coming back?”

The taller man smirked again and John decided he liked that smirk. Very much. 

“No.” 

John stilled. “Why not?”

“Could be dangerous.”

He scoffed. “So?”

Sherlock stared at him.

John tried not to move as the other man’s eyes scanned him. He took the time to look at him too. Memorize his tall frame, his face. The way his almost translucent eyes traveled all around him. The way his fingers drummed on the armrest. He’s not eating properly, John noticed. He’s not sleeping well either…

“Interesting,” the man finally said.

John looked up and found those clear eyes fixed on him again. The detective, however, quickly looked away and his gaze fell on the pictures on the floor. John bent down to pick one of them up. He looked as unhealthy in the pictures as he looked right now and John wondered if the man had ever had the slightest interest in taking care of himself. 

When he raised his gaze back to the seat across him, it was empty, and whatever John had been about to ask died on his lips.

Everything was quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays, everybody! Thanks for reading <3


	4. Engagement

John looked up from his plate. Victor was smiling at him, waiting for him to answer something he had barely registered. What did he ask? Ghost? Oh yeah, he asked if had he seen the ghost yet. John noticed Violet nudging Victor with her arm and Mrs. Hudson shaking her head in disapproval. But still, they all waited for John to answer.

John shrugged and took another bite of his ridiculously expensive food.

The restaurant was crowded. It had been surprising enough for John to be suddenly invited out to dinner by his landlady and her daughter, but to be brought to one of the most expensive places in London John had ever been to…well that was more weird than surprising. John hardly knew these people and had refused at first, but they were too unusually insistent and practically dragged him out of his rooms.

Apparently, Victor proposed to Violet (also quite a shock) and he had invited them all out to celebrate. Victor was rich, by the way. Figures. Those clothes he wore _did_ look expensive… _What does he do for a living? Where does he even live?_

“Any hallucinations?” Victor pressed on. “Blood stains on the mirrors, broken things, windows opening by themselves in the middle of the night?”

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. “Oh, Victor, stop it.”

“Sorry,” he grinned. Violet rolled her eyes.

“No hallucinations,” John shrugged. “Although, there’s a really big scratch on one of the windows.”

His landlady shifted on her seat. “Oh, I’ve been meaning to change that glass for so long, but I always forget.”

“Did Sherlock do it?”

Everyone turned to look at him. John waited.

“Oh, no, that wasn’t him,” Mrs. Hudson quickly cleared. “No, that was…Jim.”

John vaguely remembered Mrs. Hudson mentioning Sherlock had had a flatmate and he wondered if this Jim had been that flatmate. John had assumed that after Sherlock’s apparent suicide, they had just moved out or something, but there was something strange in the way Violet and Victor turned to look at each other at the mention of the name and John couldn’t help himself.

“Who’s Jim?”

His landlady shifted in her seat again. Uncomfortable subject?

“He was Sherlock’s flatmate for a while,” she said, her gaze fixed on her plate. “Before he…”

John turned to Violet when Mrs. Hudson stopped talking. The girl eyed him suspiciously before adding, “He committed suicide.”

“Oh.”

_Another suicide?_

“Jim Moriarty,” Victor continued, his face losing that cheerful smile his face had been displaying the whole evening. “Jumped off the roof of St. Bart’s hospital almost four years ago.”

“Right after being accused of fraud and several other criminal acts,” Violet added. “For a while nobody talked about anything else, it was all over the newspapers and television.”

John listened and nodded. He probably had heard about this while in his army days, but news from back home never interested him much so most of the time he didn’t listen with attention. Now he wished he had. “And what about Sherlock?”

“What about him?” Violet looked at him questioningly.

“Was he…affected? I mean-“ John shrugged. “He is- was a detective, so…”

Victor and his fiancée looked at each other before turning back to John.

“It did, of course,” Victor said, taking a sip of his drink. “Moriarty was doing everything right under his nose and he never noticed, of course he was affected. He was furious. Called me up after the news broke out and ranted about it all night.”

“You knew him?”

“Sherlock?” Victor chuckled, his good humor filling his eyes once more. “I’ve known him since college.”

John raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Oh.”

“Yeah, we were close friends. Well, as close as Sherlock can get, I guess,” Victor shrugged, smiling again. “He was not one to make friends or even need anyone around him.”

John noticed Mrs. Hudson smiling fondly.

“So you were special, then?” John hoped he didn’t sound too interested. Or too creepy.

“Nah,” Victor grinned, leaning back on his chair and draping an arm around Violet’s shoulders. “I just met him by coincidence. My dog attacked his ankle and it fell upon me to take him to the hospital. We kind of became friends during his recovery.”

John smiled and turned to Violet. “Did you meet him at college too?”

“Oh, no,” Violet shook her head. “I met him years later. He helped my mum and I with my father’s case and then some other small…family cases.”

“Oh, he helped your father?” John was sure he had no business whatsoever in this, but he was curious, bored, and, frankly, he just wanted to keep talking about Sherlock Holmes.

“He helped my mum and I,” Violet clarified, cutting a piece of chicken on her plate with a little too much force. “Helped us ensure he got what he deserved.”

Ah.

John turned questioningly to Victor who quietly mimicked slashing his throat with his finger.

“Oh.”

“That’s when Violet and Victor met,” Mrs. Hudson suddenly said, rejoining the conversation. She smiled as if they hadn’t been talking about her now apparently dead husband. John wondered what the man had done to have his memory so easily dismissed like this.

“Sherlock and I shared rooms at the time, a little apartment at Montague Street,” Victor explained after swallowing a rather large mouthful of steak. “He received a new case from America and asked me to go with him. Mostly because the trip to America was long and he wanted someone to get bored with. The git just would never admit he didn’t like to be alone.”

“Of course not, great Sherlock I-work-alone Holmes, remember?” Violet mumbled with some amusement in her eyes.

“He always needed someone,” Victor said, turning to John with a look the doctor didn’t quite understand. “even if he tells you differently.”

The change in tense made John startle and the way Victor was staring at him made John certain he was trying to tell him something. Did he know something about Sherlock? Was this some kind of cue for him to do or say something?

Before John could get the words out of his mouth though, Victor turned away and Violet resumed the conversation normally.

“It wasn’t very romantic I have to say ,” Violet wrinkled her nose. “One expects to meet their loved one in a mysterious and unexpected way, not during one’s father’s execution.”

Victor laughed.

The conversation continued for the rest of the evening, going from the first days of the couple’s relationship to their wedding plans. John remained mostly silent, only listening and waiting for some other glance from Victor or some explanation as to what had just happened, but the man barely made eye contact with him for the rest of their meal. As opposed to Violet who kept throwing uncertain glances at him as if expecting him to suddenly stand up and walk away.

After what seemed like hours, Violet pushed away her now empty dessert plate and patted Victor on the shoulder.

“It’s getting late, dear.”

Victor glanced at the screen of his phone and nodded. “You’re right, wow, time does fly.”

“So, do you live near London?”

John was genuinely curious. Violet couldn’t live here, or else she wouldn’t need to stay at the upper room at Baker Street. Victor had come out of nowhere and John had no idea where he was staying or where he lived. Not that it was any of his business, but they were including him in their family dinners now, he guessed he had some kind of right to be curious….right?

Victor finally turned to look at him. “Violet and I have been living together for a while now,” he explained taking the last bit of his overly chocolate-covered cake, or whatever that brown thing was. The food in this place was pretty strange looking. He wasn’t even sure what he had eaten himself. “We lived in Switzerland, but we decided to move back to London. You know, to be with the family and that.”

“Wow. Switzerland?”

“Oh, you’re moving back to London?!” Mrs. Hudson beamed. John raised his eyebrows as the elderly woman twisted herself to the side and threw her arms around her daughter. That couldn’t be good for her hip, thought John, but his landlady didn’t seem to mind right now.

“Yeah, surprise!” Violet chuckled, wrapping her arms tenderly around her mother. “I’ve been neglecting you for too long, mum. It’s time for me to be here for you again.”

John smiled, watching as both mother and daughter initiated another conversation of their own about what they could do together once the couple fully settled in the city. Victor chuckled, gulping down the rest of his tea. This was his chance. If Victor had indeed tried to tell him something before, then this was the time to say something else before Violet and Mrs. Hudson’s chat ended or turned to include them.

“What about your family, Victor?”

Victor turned to John. For a moment, his eyes reflected panic and John was about to take his question back when Victor suddenly smiled and shrugged.

“My mother died when I was young, and my father and sister followed her fate during my college years,” he said, a faint, calm smile on his lips.

“I-I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to-“

“Nah, it’s okay,” Victor smiled, his eyes looking down at the table. “I had Sherlock and Violet with me, they were always there for me. I couldn’t have asked for more.”

_But then Sherlock died too._

John turned to his barely-touched piece of cake, no longer hungry.

_But he’s not dead, is he? And maybe he knew it._

“Hey-“

Victor’s phone beeped.

“Violet,” the man called, and with one glance from his soon-to-be wife, they both stood up.

“Well then, we ought to take you home now, mum, it’s late and it’s getting too cold for you to be out still,” Violet spoke as she helped her mother to her feet, not that Mrs. Hudson seemed to need it, but the attention from her daughter brought certain glee to her eyes that made her actions  more affectionate than necessary. “The hip, remember?”

“We also have to take John back home, we don’t want him to be late for work tomorrow, do we?”

John had tomorrow free, but he didn’t say anything and just nodded.

The rest of the night went without incident or strange glances. On the way back home, Mrs. Hudson and Violet talked about possible wedding dates and places that the couple could move to while Victor shared some stories from their time in Switzerland with John.

“Great to meet you, Dr. Watson,” Victor waved before slipping into Mrs. Hudson’s flat with the rest.

A flight of stairs later, John was back in his room.

Alone.

Feeling his leg’s unwillingness to keep holding his body weight up, he sat on his usual seat and closed his eyes, the distant city noise that came from outside oddly comforting.

John smiled as he heard the familiar steps echo around the flat.

“I thought you said you were not coming back.”

John opened his eyes and looked up at the figure hovering over him. The tall man smirked. _God, those eyes._

“And leave you here with your suicidal thoughts?”

John frowned. “What? I don’t have suicidal thoughts.”

“Oh, you don’t?” Sherlock gracefully sat at the seat across John, smirk still in place.

“I don’t!”

The former detective glanced at John’s bandaged hand.

“That…was an accident.”

“Right.”

John glared. “I’m not saying I haven’t considered it in the past…” he sighed. “But I won’t do it.”

“Can you promise me that?”

“Yes! I promise,” John sighed, rolling his eyes. “Anyway, you’re one to talk.”

Sherlock shifted in his seat. “My case is completely different.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Care to explain?”

Sherlock fixed his gaze on him. “I had to…disappear.”

John watched as the taller man’s eyes travelled around the flat. He looked thoughtful. John took his time again to look at him. He was wearing the same coat he had seen on him that first night. Underneath, his clothes looked ragged and dirty. His hands were covered in scars as well as his face. His hair was messy and a little too long. He could only wonder what the man did when he was not here.

“It’s a game. A dangerous game and you must not get involved.”

Sherlock jumped out of his seat and walked up to John. He rested his hands on each side of John’s seat and looked down at him, his breath brushing over the doctor’s face.

“You need to stop meddling, John. Your curiosity could get you killed some day,” Sherlock was almost whispering, still, his voice filled John’s mind and made him shiver. “Stop asking about me.”

“I’m not really doing much…am I?”

“Everything that is connected with me is being closely watched,” the man continued, his face just inches from John’s. “I don’t want any more people getting involved in this.”

John could feel his breath over his face. So close. He wanted to touch his face. Feel those scars that adorned his cheekbones with the tips of his fingers.

“Why do you keep coming here, then?”

A whole two minutes went by before either man spoke again.

“I’m not sure.”

_He always needed someone._

John slowly raised his hand to the man’s face. Sherlock watched him, his eyes wary.

“How did you get these?” John asked, his fingers lightly tracing one of the longest scars across Sherlock’s face. It went from under his left ear, across his cheek and almost reaching his lips. It was almost completely healed now. A couple of months and it would start fading if given proper care.

Sherlock watched his face as the doctor traced the scar on his face. Back and forth. Soothing.

“Jumped out a window.”

John raised his eyes to him. “Alright.”

“I live a dangerous life,” Sherlock smirked. “You might like it.”

“Sounds interesting,” John smiled, letting his hand drop. “I wish I could go with you.”

The man’s smile faded.

“I was a soldier, you know,” John said before the dark-haired man could say anything. “I fought in war, I-”

“You fought in Afghanistan. Got shot, then discharged."

John raised his eyebrow at him. “You been asking about me?”

“I don’t need to ask anything about you when you carry your whole life story around with you,” the tall man said, taking one of John’s wrists and lifting it up for John to see. “Your whole military career, written all over you.”

John frowned.

“Face tanned but no tan above the wrists, abroad but not sunbathing” Sherlock elaborates before letting go. “Your haircut and the way you hold yourself. Even the way you do your bed-“

“Have you been spying on me?”

“Not relevant. Now your limp…”

“What about it?”

“Psychosomatic.”

“Wha-“

“I’ve seen the pain in your face when you get home, you clearly struggle to walk most of the time, but then I brake into your home and…”

John looked down and noticed that Sherlock’s hand was on his leg and heavily leaning on it. John could feel the man’s weight on his leg, but it didn’t hurt.

“That night we met, you actually ran into the kitchen and then back to the room while I showered,” he continued, “with no problem at all.”

John blinked.

“Then I came back and you ran at me, you tried to catch me,” Sherlock’s hand came up to John’s now bandage-free head. “No limp.”

John looked at him. That close, he could see the dark bags under his clear eyes. He was clearly tired and his hollow cheeks said a lot about his malnutrition. 

“In conclusion, your limp is at least partly psychosomatic, which suggests possible traumatic circumstances. And I’ve also seen your shoulder-“

John frowned and tried not to reach for the offending mark forever carved into his body.

“Shot. Wounded in action. Suntan. You’d obviously been to war in either Afghanistan or Iraq, and after some shuffling around your documents-”

“You went through my things?”

“-I concluded Afghanistan.”

“You actually went through my things?”

“Irrelevant.”

After a moment of silence, John tried speaking again.

“I knew my limp was psychosomatic,” he whispered, “I just-“

“You felt weak for not being strong enough to make it go away,” Sherlock said, "so you just try to ignore its intermitent tendencies."

John pressed his lips into a thin line but didn't answer. To John's relief, the man quickly changed the subject.

“But this is a different kind of war,” Sherlock said, resuming their previous conversation. “You need to stay away from it if you don’t want to get hurt.”

“And what if I _do_ want to get hurt?”

Sherlock scoffed. “Do you really miss being in a war that much?”

John shifted forward and pulled himself to his feet. “Maybe I do.”

The taller man considered him for a while before stepping back and turning to the window.

“Oh, no you don’t,” John spoke up, making a grab for the long coat and pulling him back. The man turned to him, an indignant expression on his face.

“Let go!”

“You’re not leaving again,” John declared, still holding onto the coat, which clearly needed a good wash. “Not like that.”

“It’s dangerous for me to be here,” Sherlock frowned, trying to free himself from the doctor’s grasp. “There could be someone watching me right now and if they see you-“

“Stay away form the windows, then.”

John pulled at the coat, forcing Sherlock to follow him into the kitchen.

“What do you want?” Sherlock crossed his arms, clearly annoyed at being held down like this.

“I want to know what’s going on,” John said, still not letting go of the coat. “I want answers.”

“Answers to what?”

“Why did you fake your death?”

“Next.”

John frowned but decided not to push it. Not yet anyway.

“Did you create the whole ghost story?”

Sherlock scoffed. “People love living in a fairytale, that was hardly my doing.” The detective glanced at his still trapped coat. “Of course, once the story broke out, I decided to use it in my favor to keep stupid people away from this place.”

“Wait, so…you actually are the ghost?”

“A couple of drops in their drinks and it becomes so easy to get them scared and running out of here.”

John’s jaw dropped. “Wait, you…you drugged them?”

“Are we done here? I would very much like to leave.”

“But…why do you want them away if you’re supposed to be dead?”

“I’ve grown too attached to this place to have such stupid people residing in it.”

John shook his head, thinking. “You…you haven’t drugged me, have you?”

“I ran out of-“ Sherlock frowned. “Let me go already! I’m not telling you anything! I don't owe you any answers.”

“No, wait!” John tugged on Sherlock’s coat, just to let him know he was still in his grasp. Sherlock could easily slip off the coat and go, but he didn’t. He wondered if it was because the coat was important or if he just didn’t really mean to go just yet. “Mrs. Hudson. Do you realize how much trouble you have caused her because of this?”

“Yes, Violet likes to remind me of that fact pretty much every time she sets eyes on me,” Sherlock sighed in frustration. “I’m doing her a favor, though. She doesn’t deserve having to deal with such dull people.“

John let the coat fall. “Wait, Violet? You know Violet?”

Sherlock sighed again, shifting his shoulders to get the coat fall back into place.

“Both Victor and Violet are here to protect Mrs. Hudson and you from danger,” Sherlock spoke, walking towards the long couch at the end of the flat and letting himself drop over it.  “They’re my assistants.”

“They’re…” John didn’t know what to say. “So are they like…undercover agents?”

Sherlock smiled. “If you want to think of them like that.”

“Wait, so everything they’ve said…is it all part of their cover? Their engagement, the college stories…?” _So Victor was actually trying to tell him something!_

The detective took his shoes off and stretched himself on the couch. He definitely didn’t mean to go. “Oh, no, those things are all true. Horrible timing for a wedding, in my opinion.”

John thought back to the day Violet arrived. How she always seemed interested in where he went. Those curious, suspecting eyes that followed him every time he went outside.

“Does Mrs. Hudson know?”

“No.”

John nodded thoughtfully. “I…I feel as if I were in a movie.”

“You’re in a war, John,” Sherlock said, his eyes now closed and his body relaxed. “Again.”

John nodded and walked back to his usual seat, flopping down on it. He let himself relax, his mind trying to absorb this new information slowly. After a while, John noticed Sherlock had fallen asleep.

Just how long the man had gone without proper sleep or a proper meal, John wished to know. He looked at the time and started running through possible recipes in his head, wondering what he could prepare for the now sleeping man. Would he even risk staying here long enough to eat something?

He didn’t, John found out after waking up from an extremely unwelcome nap and, once again, finding an empty flat.

_Damn._


	5. Start

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter this time. Next one almost done!

John went back to work. Sarah, somehow, achieving that his constant absences be set aside (John made a note to find a way of thanking her later). He got another chance. Just one, though. One more slip and he’d lose his job permanently. There were already more applicants that would surely be better doctors than John emotionally-damaged Watson.

Somehow, though, this time he didn’t find his job as dull as he did before. Helping people, tending to them, listening to their problems and pains. For the first time in a long time, John actually enjoyed his work.

He also started sleeping and eating better. After all, he couldn’t go telling people to take care of themselves without taking care of himself first.

“You’re looking better,” Sarah noticed. Of course she’d notice. “Did something good happen?”

John threw her a smile. If only she knew what it was he considered _good_.

“Any plans for tomorrow?”

“I’m helping some friends move into their new home,” John replied. Victor and Violet had finally found their new home and the couple had been very insistent on John helping them move in. Something John found very suspicious, considering he had a limp. But at least, for once, he wasn’t lying to Sarah. “Sorry.”

Sarah noticed that too. She smiled. “Sure. Next time, then.”

“Next time.”

 

-

 

There was a light drizzle falling over the city when John finally made it out to the street. He still had half an hour before he had to meet with Victor and Violet, so John decided to stop by a small café and order a small sandwich. He was starving, but he didn’t want to have a full stomach if he was going to spend the rest of the evening carrying boxes around. With a limp.

John was worried he wouldn’t be of any help because of it, and even if it had been slowly receding lately, he still needed his cane to make him feel safe while walking. He had made this known to the couple but their insistence had not diminished, and so he had promised to do what he could.

After paying for his food and taking a seat at the farthest corner of the small, crowded place, John took out his phone to text Victor. The couple had told him to text him when he left work so they could pick him up, telling him they didn’t want him to spend any money on cabs. 

It took another twenty minutes for John’s phone to beep with an answer, by which time he had already finished eating and was only sipping at his remaining tea.

_Had an emergency! Nothing to worry about! Will send some1 to pick you up. See ya :) – VT_

_Is everything all right?_

Another ten minutes went by without an answer and John started to worry. He was about to send another text when a woman suddenly slipped into the seat next to him. She was nicely dressed and her hair fell over her shoulders in a way that caught John’s full attention immediately.

Phone forgotten, John straightened in his seat. 

The woman, though, just sat there for a full minute, tapping away on her blackberry at a speed that made John feel like groaning. After a final tap and a satisfied smile, the woman looked up at John, whose eyes had still been glued to her agile fingers.

“John Watson.”

“Oh, um, yeah. That’s me.”

“Please follow me.”

And with that she rose to her feet and walked out. John only gave himself a couple of seconds to wonder about her identity and possible connection with Victor or Violet before he was on his feet and following her into a shiny black car parked outside.

“So, um, are you a friend of Victor’s?”

John had no idea what to say. The car was black all over, the driver completely out of his sight and the woman next to him seemed to have forgotten about him the second she walked out of the café. It was unsettling and a little bit awkward. John had almost forgotten his own question by the time she answered.

“No.”

“Oh. Violet then?”

“No." 

“Do you work for them then, or…?” 

The woman, after another long round of tapping on her phone, finally looked up at him again with a forced smile on her face. 

“I was just sent to pick you up, Dr. Watson.” 

John gave an uncertain nod and decided to occupy himself with looking around the vehicle since the windows didn’t allow him to look outside. He vaguely wondered if that should worry him.

The car ride was long and uncomfortable, the only sounds coming from the wheels on the road and the woman’s never-ending tapping on her phone keys.

John considered the possible injuries if he were to jump off a moving vehicle. 

“We’re here.”

As soon as the car stilled, the door was flung open and John ordered out of it by a tall, imposing man in a black suit.

“This way, Dr. Watson.”

“Um, yes. Right. See you, then, um-“

The woman next to him didn’t even blink. “Good day, Dr. Watson.”

“Right.”

With one last uncertain scan of the woman, John slipped out of the car and followed the man through a dark corridor and into what seemed like an abandoned warehouse. 

The place looked old, and the smell in the air was damp and made John’s nose wrinkle. The whole situation was making him uncomfortable and it didn’t take long before his wariness took hold of him. His steps didn’t falter and his gaze never left the quiet man that guided him through the dark. He knew how to handle dangerous situations. The uncertainty of what would happen and the lack of his gun in his hands didn’t worry him, nor the small smile that tugged on his lips the whole way.

_Dangerous._

“Dr. Watson, welcome.”

More casually than he intended, John stopped walking and turned towards the source of the new voice, which had come from the darkest side of the place. A shadow was slowly walking towards him and John’s whole body tensed with anticipation. The shadow gave a soft chuckle before coming to a halt a few steps away from him.

“Don’t be frightened, Dr. Watson. You don’t need to see me as a threat as long as you just follow the rules.”

“I am not frightened,” John replied, noticing the man that had guided him inside was gone.

The shadow shifted and John’s eyes caught what appeared to be some kind of cane or umbrella hanging from the unknown man’s arm. 

“Who are you?”

“Just an interested party,” the man spoke as he took another step towards John. “I am aware that Sherlock Holmes has been visiting you for some days now.” 

John didn’t answer, instead he tried to make out any feature of the man in front of him while also, already getting used to the darkness, searching around for an exit or more lurking shadows. He considered slipping his hand into his pocket and calling up someone. Let them listen to what was happening.

“I imagine he has already warned you about himself,” the man continued. “Sherlock Holmes does not do second warnings, nor do I. I will give you only this chance to back away.”

John’s attention turned completely towards the shadow, unsure of what to say. So this man was with Sherlock? He probably was working for him too, like Victor and Violet, he told himself. His heart was pounding and his hand was clenching on his cane with force.

“I can send you to an undisclosed location where you will be safe from any danger until this whole…situation comes to its end. So I ask you now, Dr. Watson, do you still wish to remain in Sherlock Holmes’s company or do you wish to step away?” 

John’s hold onto his cane relaxed, his shoulders slumped and his brows furrowed.

“Danger? Wait-” John’s mouth watered. The place around seemed to brighten up in his eyes and he found himself smiling at it all. He figured he must look a bit mad right now but he didn’t care. “What kind of situation?”

“I will not disclose any kind of information until you choose how to proceed. So you need to decide now.”

The figure before him took another step towards him, finally standing at such a distance that John could make out his features. There was something familiar in the man’s face, but John still was unable to recognize him.

“Dr. Watson.”

John resisted the urge to scoff and stood as tall as he could manage, looking right into the man’s searching eyes.

“I am not moving away.”

“221B Baker Street is no longer a safe place. There will be no other opportunity for you to leave unharmed after this.”

John lifted his chin and set his jaw in determination before speaking again. “I am not moving away.”

There was a long moment of silence in which the man’s eyes travelled up and down the doctor’s figure in a way that reminded John of Sherlock’s scrutinizing gaze. Seemingly satisfied, the man finally nodded and stepped back. “He did say you’d be an interesting addition.”

Before John could ask what he meant, the man gave a soft chuckle and clicked the tip of his umbrella on the floor. “Very well, then.”

From the other side of the warehouse came a soft screeching noise, soon followed by the same black car that had brought him here. The car stopped a few meters away from the two men, bringing light to the place.

John turned to the man, taking in as much of his appearance as he could now that he could see the whole of him.

“Dr. Watson, please follow Anthea outside, you will be taken to a place where you can have all your questions answered,” the man said, pulling his phone out from his expensive-looking coat pocket. “And I am obliged to remind you, doctor, that there is no going back now.”

John squared shoulders as he watched the woman from earlier, whose name John figured was Anthea, stepping out of the car and walking towards them.

“Right.”

“Good day, Dr. Watson. And welcome back." 

“Welcome back where?” 

As soon as Anthea reached the pair, the man turned on his heel and walked away in the opposite direction of the car. “War.”

John couldn’t help but smirk a little at that. 

“I’m guessing you are to take me to that secret place or whatever he mentioned”

Anthea looked up from her phone and gave him an amused smile. “Yes. I was also told to give you something.”

John’s eyebrows perked up at that and he followed the woman back into the car. Once inside, and with the car back in motion, she pulled out a wooden box from under the seat and opened it for him, revealing what John recognized as his own gun, along with a small mobile phone he didn’t remember ever seeing.

“Did- did you break into my flat?” John asked as he was handed the whole box.

“We were told you didn’t mind,” the woman smiled and went back to her texting, leaving John to his own thoughts for the rest of the ride.


	6. The Bee Hive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is not a bee. Yet.

An annoyed sigh was all John gave to his new company as he was forcefully sat on the farthest chair in the room by the mere will of blank stares. Only two faces out of the small crowd around him were familiar, and John hoped to get a proper apology from both of them as soon as he made sure what exactly was happening.

The room was dark, the only light coming from an unsettlingly old chandelier hanging over the large table he was currently seated at. Yet, not long after being escorted into the room of curious, unfamiliar eyes, John’s sight had adapted to it.

John’s eyes travelled over the dozen or so faces in the room, averting his gaze when someone turned to look back. A couple next to him kept peering at him as if wanting to ask something, but never attempting to actually do it. The silence stretched for some minutes more before John started to get desperate.

He looked across the wooden table and glared at Victor’s apologetic shrug.

“What…exactly is happening?” 

More silence and a couple of panicked stares answered his question. Victor shook his head at John and placed a finger over his lips. John frowned, but obeyed. The creepy man in the suit had told him he’d get answers here, and he hoped the reason for this strange silence would be answered as well.

The ride to this place had been long. So long John would have suspected he was getting kidnapped and/or killed somewhere outside London if not for the gun in his hands. What kind of person with bad intentions would arm their victim first? Maybe they wanted a fight from him first?

He had been wondering if he was part of some kind of psychopath’s idea of a crime when the car had suddenly stopped and he was hauled out of it then thoroughly searched.

It was ridiculous, John thought, how very thoroughly he was searched and yet how they never tried to pry his gun away from his fingers.

The fact that he kept following strangers into unknown places should have worried him.

It didn’t. Not much, anyway. John had to admit all this was better than being home alone watching telly.

After another couple of minutes of silence, John resigned himself to wait. He let out another sigh, more quietly this time, and settled back on his chair. 

Not long after, he caught a frantic movement out of the corner of his eye. His head quickly turned towards it to find a blonde woman waving her hand at him. John took it as a greeting and awkwardly gave a short wave back, realizing too late he did so while still holding his gun. The woman didn’t even flinch. Instead, she smiled and pulled out a small package out of her jeans pocket and offered it to John.

Candy.

John, by now willing to just go with pretty much everything, let her drop a small red candy sphere upon his palm. John watched as she took one for herself and popped it into her mouth before he did the same with his.

He wasn’t sure what it was, but it tasted good. The woman slid the small packet of candy back into her pocket and relaxed into her seat, turning back towards the rest of their company.

John did the same and was surprised to find people were now conversing in complete silence. A couple three seats away from him were communicating with each other in sign language. Victor and Violet were just throwing quick looks at each other while clearly trying not to laugh. The rest alternated between glances and hand signals he didn’t recognize.

Confused, John turned back to the woman on his side and found her tapping away on digital buttons upon her phone. John found himself drawn to her quick typing and wondering if she’d win a phone typing competition against Anthea. Her fingers were slim and her nails nicely trimmed, and it wasn’t long before John’s gaze was drawn to the rest of her. Her light blonde hair was short and tied up into a messy ponytail and John briefly wondered if it was as soft as it looked.

In the blink of an eye, the phone was gone and the woman was staring at him with a raised eyebrow. John quickly turned away and accidentally swallowed the candy in his mouth, earning himself a short and embarrassing coughing fit. By the time he managed to get himself in check, all eyes were upon him again and the woman next to him was smiling in a clear attempt to swallow back a laugh.

It was at that moment that the door at the corner of the room was flung open and a tall man walked in. The same man that John had just encountered moments ago in a dark, creepy warehouse.

John bit back a scoff.

“Doctor Watson,” the man spoke, “please forgive the long wait. We are ready now.”

And just like that, the man walked around them all and took one of the only two remaining seats.

“Before we begin, Doctor Watson, please hand over your gun to Miss Morstan.”

Before John could ask, the still smiling woman next to him extended her hand towards him and John hesitated for just a couple of seconds before handing it to her. She pointed it at his temple.

John scoffed.

“Really?”

“Procedures, don’t mind them,” the man shrugged as he sifted through some folders upon the table that John had failed to notice before. “Now, John, I assume you have questions-“

John scoffed again.

“-and I assure you they will all be answered in due time. For now, I’d like to give you a brief explanation of what you just agreed to on our previous encounter.”

John cast a brief glance at the woman, Miss Morstan, still pointing his gun at him before turning back towards the man. Nothing made sense.

“You are currently in a building known to the public as the Diogenes Club. To everyone in this room, though, this place is called, by the silly whims of my younger brother, the Bee Hive.”

“The Bee Hive,” John repeated with a flat voice and amusement adorning the edges of his lips. Younger brother?

Some quiet sniggering echoed in the room and the man cleared his throat.

“Yes. The Bee Hive. You are not allowed to talk or even acknowledge anyone in this building outside of this room or my office for reasons that will be explained to you at another less pressing time. You are not allowed to utter a sound when a member outside the established company is present, which doesn’t happen that often. Also-“

The man’s voice was interrupted by a soft beep from his phone. A quick glance at the small screen and he was on his feet and towards the door.

“I am afraid I have to step out for a moment. Doctor Watson. Before I go, though, I’d like to welcome you to the Hive. You are officially a member of this company and you will be later required to sign some paperwork. Meanwhile, Miss Morstan here will be in charge of you and any question you might have. She will also provide you with the proper training for the next few days. You should be expecting orders by next week.”

John opened his mouth to protest, to ask, to question, but nothing came out of his mouth.  
Phone still in hand, the umbrella man left the room. 

“Well, then, Doctor Watson, welcome to the club,” Miss Morstan spoke, drawing John’s attention back to her as she handed his gun back. “Please call me Mary.”

“Um- John.”

“John.” Mary nodded. “We have a lot of work to do, John. You being a soldier should make everything easier.”

“How do you-?”

“John!”

John never noticed when the seat next to him was vacated but in the blink of an eye a smiling Victor was now sitting on it while giving a careful shake to John’s good shoulder.

“Victor!” John’s eyes quickly narrowed. “What the hell is going on?”

“Who would have thought John Watson would qualify for the Hive?” Victor grinned, giving John’s shoulder another shake.

“Qualify? Hive-, hey wait a moment!” John turned to the slowly emptying room and then back to Victor. “That man, who was he?”

“Who? Mycroft? He’s Sherlock’s brother.”

“Brother? I-…I am confused,” John sighed, flopping back on his chair. Everything was so surreal and…impossible. John wondered how his life had suddenly gone from utterly boring to movie-like in so short a time. All this…secret team and gun pointing was…great, he had to admit, but still very unreal.

Not that he was complaining, this may very well be the thing he had been waiting for. His purpose in life. To follow a bunch of strangers that seemed to work for the man who liked to break into his flat every time he pleased. Yes, this could be very good.

“And that’s why I’m here for, John” Mary spoke up, scooting her chair closer to his. “I will answer all of your questions to the best of my knowledge and once you know what you’re in for we’ll start with your training.”

John turned to her and straightened on his seat. “Training for what exactly?”

“For everything,” Violet replied from next to Victor. “We have to be ready for everything. Moriarty’s men could be hiding under your bed right this moment and you have to be ready to take them down should they choose to strike.”

Yes, definitely good.

“Wait…isn’t Moriarty Sherlock’s dead flatmate?”

“Yes, he is.” Mary nodded “And he is very much as dead as Sherlock.”

John nodded, filing all information in his head as best he could. “Alright.”

Mary smiled. “We’ve got a lot to cover, John. We better get better seats.”

And with that she stood up and slipped from the room.

“And we’d love to help with that but we have matters to attend to and we better be off.”

John nodded and accepted Victor’s quick handshake.

“Good luck, John. It’ll be pretty fun to have you around. Officially.”

Before John could utter a sound, the couple was gone from the room and being cornered by one smirking Mary Morstan. With his gun. His eyes wide and startled, he only managed a few babbling sounds.

Mary considered him for a while and stepped back. “We have to work on your reflexes, John. They seem a bit rusty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So very sorry for yet another very short chapter! BUT I'm almost done with my fic plan, should have chapters properly sorted out soon and then I can maybe get more constant with my updates. Thank you for reading <3!


	7. Jennifer Wilson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock investigates the death of another fallen Hive member.

“I take it you had a rough day yesterday?”

Sherlock’s smirk behind his cup of tea had John rolling his eyes as he made his way to his chair, back straight and face trying to hide the flinching at his aching body’s protesting.

“Do you do this often?” John groaned as he gratefully slipped into his seat, a cup of steaming tea in hand.

“You will need to specify,” Sherlock said, crossing his legs.

“Break into other people’s flats?”

“This is my flat.”

John huffed, “Yeah, well, I don’t see you paying any rent.”

Sherlock sipped at his cup as a reply. John rolled his eyes and took a sip of his own.

It was comforting, in a way, having the man sitting right across him. As long as he was here John could be sure he had not dreamed the events of the previous day. Then again, his aching limbs could be considered as enough evidence.

From the moment Mary Morstan had begun the training session, all friendliness and kind smiles had gone out the window. The woman had very much reminded him of his training days in the army. He hadn’t realized just how much out of shape he was until he had been faced with the long way back home after his first day of training. He had barely made it to his bed before he had collapsed over it still in his damp with sweat clothes.

“Mary Morstan can be quite demanding,” Sherlock said with another sip of his tea.

John chuckled.

Then frowned.

“Was I talking out loud?”

“No, but your thoughts are loud enough.”

John gaped.

Sherlock sighed “No, I don’t read minds, John. I merely observe.”

“How is _that_ observing?”

“You are very…expressive,” Sherlock noted. “It is not very hard to follow your train of thought by just observing you.”

“Expressive?”

Sherlock placed his cup of tea down and smirked

“You flinched,” he began “when you stretched your arm to reach the coffee table. It could have been your war wound, but then you flinched again as you straightened in your seat. Obviously, it’s not just your arm bothering you this time. Your eyes went unfocused then. Clearly, you were recalling past events, most likely, yesterday events. It really is that simple, and even if I didn’t already know what happened yesterday, I could have deduced it by the way your general posture has changed from the last time I saw you.”

John stared at him, mouth slightly open, intently listening from the edge of his seat. He licked his lips. “My-my posture?”

“Your army training. It was obvious from the first time I saw you in the way you held yourself, but since last I saw you, it became even more noticeable. Something definitely happened. Body aching, more alert soldier stand, it was obvious you had had some sort of physical activity that reminded you of your army training. Even your eyes sparkle a little more today, which tells me you are quite content with your current situation. 

“Wow,” John grinned. “You really are brilliant!”

“Of course I am.”

John beamed. “Really, I had never met anyone who could…see so much. It’s amazing. You must have been a great detective.”

Sherlock turned to him suddenly as if hit. John bit his tongue hoping he hadn’t said anything wrong.

“I don’t see, I observe.” He murmured. “Or at least I thought I did.”

John opened his mouth to ask, but Sherlock’s frustrated eyes made him close it again.

“It was right in front of me, everything happened in my own flat and I never saw a thing,” Sherlock growled, hands clenching. “Yes, such a great detective I was.”

John stayed silent and made a mental note to be careful the next time he brought up this topic.

It was getting uncomfortable, sitting in complete silence with Sherlock looking so…defeated.

“Are you any closer to catching him?” John finally asked.

Sherlock sighed and looked at his empty cup of tea with annoyance. John immediately sat up to prepare more. “His web is a lot smaller now.”

“Web?”

Sherlock jumped to his feet and followed John into the kitchen. “If there’s something you need to know about James Moriarty is that he’s not a man. He’s a spider. A spider at the center of a criminal web with thousand of threads and he knows precisely how each and every single one of them dances.”

John put the kettle to boil and turned to the detective again. “Have you tried pesticide?" 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and John smiled.

“You are not taking this seriously, John.”

“Of course I am,” he said, resting his hip on the sink. “So what? Your whole…bee hive thing is like your own web? Are you a spider as well? A queen bee?" 

Sherlock huffed. “That was Mycroft’s idea. I never wanted a bunch of people following after me like moths.”

“So now you’re a lamp?”

Sherlock glared.

John smiled and turned back to the kettle. “So if you didn’t want people following you, helping you, or whatever, then why are you still…taking recruits?”

“I may not have wanted it, but that doesn’t mean it’s not proved to be…useful.”

“You said Moriarty’s web is smaller.”

“We’ve taken down a big part of it,” Sherlock announced, taking a seat at the kitchen table. “Not without loses of our own.”

John took a seat at the chair next to him. 

“I would not have accomplished what I have if I didn’t have them with me,” the man admitted.

“How many are there?” John asked. He had seen quite a lot at the Diogenes Club, but he didn’t think those were the only ones. But considering he had asked him, hurt, limping, unstable John Watson to join him…maybe he was desperate.

“I have eyes and ears everywhere, John,” Sherlock shrugged, “Some times it’s hard to keep up with them all. Mycroft is the filter. He’s in charge of organizing them and reporting back to me what is relevant.” 

The whistle of the kettle made John get up quickly, and once his back was to the ex-detective he asked. “Then why would you need more?”

“We are close to him, John. I will need the best of the best to catch him.”

John scoffed. “The best of the best?” 

Sherlock’s smirk went unnoticed by the doctor.

As John handed Sherlock a freshly made cup of tea, the man’s phone beeped. Sherlock had it out immediately and scowled. 

“What is it?”

“Another down,” Sherlock grimaced, furiously typing a response on the tiny keyboard. “Jennifer Wilson was found dead in an abandoned building.”

“Was she from the Hive?”

“Yes. Very clever too,” he said, gulping down his tea in such a way John knew he was about to leave. “I need to go see her body before Scotland Yard gets there.”

John frowned. “How did you know about it before Scotland Yard?” 

The detective stood from his chair and quickly strode to the door, pulling on his coat. “Eyes and ears everywhere, John.”

John nodded, sipping at his cup.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Aren’t you coming?”

John’s eyes widened. “Seriously?”

Sherlock looked around the quiet flat. “Would you rather stay here?”

John shook his head and before the man could change his mind, John jumped off his chair and ran into his room to grab his jacket. Then he turned towards his desk drawer.

“John!”

_Take it._

Sherlock was already outside, slipping into a black car that John thought was probably Mycroft’s. John ran out the door, not bothering to lock it on his way out. He quickly got into the car and closed the door, his gun safely tucked at the back of his waistband, hidden by his jacket.

\--

 

Lauriston Gardens was deserted. The black car made sure to disappear completely after dropping them a couple of blocks away from the building. Sherlock ran too fast for someone wearing such a heavy coat, but John didn’t find it too hard to keep up.

Jennifer Wilson was sprawled face down on the floor. Her pink clothing made John wince.

“She worked in the media,” Sherlock informed as he crouched down next to the body. “A very useful contact…gone.”

John crouched down next to the woman. There was no blood, no sign of violence. John looked her over with attention, not daring to touch her without gloves. Her nails had scratched something on the floor, which probably meant her death had been slow. At least slow enough for her to scratch this on the hard wooden floor. She had also been alone. Her killer wouldn’t have let her leave a message if they had been there. They had left quickly after…after what? How had they killed her?

John looked up and found Sherlock smirking at him.

“What?” John cleared his throat, not blushing at all. Nope.

“Tell me what you observed,” he requested.

John licked his lips before turning back to the woman, away from those watchful, knowing eyes.

“Well, she…there’s vomit under her face, probably passed out and choked on it. Drugs. Maybe a seizure.” John gave a quick look to the man and quickly turned back to the body. Those eyes…

“She had time to scratch that on the floor, though, so she was probably very aware she was dying. Poisoned?”

Sherlock’s smile went unnoticed again.

“Poisoned, yes.” Sherlock nodded. “We know that form the past three victims, all died under the same condition, no clues of who their killer was. But this…”

Sherlock gently traced the marks on the floor with his finger. “Rache.”

“What does that mean?”

“Jennifer Wilson was a clever woman, very clever. This must mean something important, and we need to find out what it means.”

Sherlock’s phone beeped again and after a quick glance to the phone, he stood up. “Scotland Yard will be here any minute, we need to go now.”

Nodding, John stood up too and followed the tall man outside and three blocks away, where the same black car was waiting for them.

“But first we must find her phone and suitcase.”

\--

 

“Rachel was her daughter,” Mycroft said, Wilson’s papers in hand. “She was kidnapped and murdered 9 years ago.”

John frowned.

Sherlock held his hands under his chin as he paced the room. “That’s…why would she do that?”

“Maybe it’s some kind of…code?” John suggested. “9 years ago, right? Something to do with 9? Or maybe the one who killed her daughter was the same who killed her.” 

There was a long silence before Sherlock turned to him with wide eyes. “A code, yes!”

Quickly, Sherlock ran back to the black car waiting outside and snatched the pink suitcase he had found in a dumpster a while ago. By the time John caught up with him, Sherlock had ripped the suitcase tag off and was on his way back into Mycroft’s office. He followed.

“Move aside, I need your laptop,” Sherlock ordered as he slipped into Mycroft’s seat behind the huge, elegant desk. Mycroft just rolled his eyes and walked behind the chair.

“Her phone. We couldn’t find her phone, but this should guide us to it,” the man said as he excitedly typed the information on the tag onto the screen.

John walked to Sherlock’s side and bent down to watch the screen. “Rachel is her password.”

“Business woman, should have had a smartphone. E-mail and GPS enabled,” he said as a map of London popped on on the screen. “Oh, she was clever, so very clever. This is why we couldn’t find her phone, she planted it on her killer. She’s leading us directly to whoever killed her.”

“Amazing,” John breathed.

“So are you just going to run off to a murderer?” Mycroft asked, crossing his arms. “The same murderer who has taken four of our best?”

“Not by my own, no.”

Mycroft glanced at John and grimaced.

“Watson? Really?”

“I’m right here,” John glared.

Mycroft ignored him. “He’s not enough, you need to take someone else too.”

With a beep, the map finally zoomed into a point.

221B Baker Street.

\--

 

“I am not a murderer!” John pleaded from behind the cold bars. It hadn’t been enough that Mycroft had thrown him into a cell, but he had had to stand there, locked up, and completely ignored by both the Holmes brothers as they debated over him as if he weren’t in the room. It had been an hour now, and Mycroft was as far from changing his mind as Sherlock was. “Come on, you lot have got me under surveillance for the past days, do you really think I did it?”

“This is ridiculous,” Sherlock fumed, pacing around the cell room. “We’re just wasting time!”

“I am being merely cautious, that’s all.” Mycroft sighed from across the room. “I already told you I won’t let him out until I have enough evidence of his innocence. We can’t afford to take anything lightly right now, and you know it.”

Sherlock turned to John and then back to his brother. “I will get it, then.”

John held onto the bars.

“I already have my men on it, Sherlock.”

“Are these the same men who failed to discover Moriarty’s web of lies when he first moved in with me?” Sherlock sneered. “Oh, how appeased I am now!" 

Mycroft glared. “We know where to look this time, Sherlock, I assure you the-“

“You won’t find anything, this is all just a waste of time!”

“How do you know?”

The men turned to him so fast John thought his heads would snap off.

“That got your attention, didn’t it?” John glared, trying to keep the anger on his face as Sherlock’s betrayed eyes stared at him. “I didn’t do it, okay? But I don’t blame you for making sure.” Actually, he was pretty mad they could doubt him, but then again, these people didn’t know him very well yet and John didn’t know them either. As much as he would like to believe otherwise, these people were still strangers to him.

“But you’re right, you are wasting time,” he continued. “I have no idea why the phone would be at my flat and you can keep me locked here all you want, but if that phone was there then that means I have officially become involved in this.”

John raised his finger to Sherlock in warning. The detective closed his mouth.

“You brought me here because you wanted me to help you,” John turned to look directly at Mycroft now. “I can’t help you if you don’t trust me, and it’s obvious you can’t trust me if I don’t prove myself first. So let me.”

Before Mycroft could say anything, however, his phone rang. John wondered if electronic devices had always had this bad timing.

“Musgrave,” Mycroft answered, then scowled as Sherlock plucked the phone from his hand.

“Save the boring details for my brother. Tell me, can he go free now, yes or no?”

John tightened his grip on the bars and then Sherlock nodded. “Good.”

And with that, Sherlock tossed the phone back to Mycroft and rushed to open the gate.

\--

 

John breathed in the outside air before following Sherlock into the dark alleyway. The doctor thought Sherlock really did take staying in the shadows seriously.

“Hey, thank you fo-“

“No, John. You don’t need to thank me for proving my brother wrong.” Sherlock said, looking at ease through the narrow spaces in between the city “Again.”

John nodded. Right. “Why did you stay, anyway? It was obvious you wanted to leave and investigate, there was no need for you to stick around until-“

Sherlock stopped and turned to the shorter man, who had tried his very best not to bump into him because of the sudden halting. 

“I didn’t ask you to join me only to have you locked in a cell,” he glared. “What is the point of getting an assistant if he won’t be able to help me when I need him?”

“Do you even need an assistant?” John asked incredulous. “Don’t get me wrong, I love this. All this…running around, this secret thing to bring down the villain.” John huffed a laugh. “It’s more than I could ever have imagined to have after the army and…I love it. But you? Pulling all your little strings, right at the top of everything? Why would you need me when you have all those…trained people back at the Hive? Mary? Violet? Victor?”

John swallowed, not even sure why he was arguing. He really loved what was happening, but being thrown into that cold cell had reminded him just how much of a nobody he still was to these people, and to Sherlock to want him working with him for no apparent reason…it made no sense. He had seen him at his worst. Kept an eye on him and slowly made his way into his life instead of scaring him away like he had done with all previous residents of “his flat”. He had obviously seen something useful in him, but as much as he tried to come up with something, John couldn’t see what it was.

“Why me?” he finally breathed, not daring to look at the man in front of him. 

“You may be just as messed up as I am.”

John frowned and looked up.

“The first time I saw you, you were sprawled on the floor. Defeated. Unable to keep going.”

John licked his lips in that act of nervousness that had been with him his whole life. “The note.”

He still had it…in his bedside table drawer. Safely tucked into the pages a book of which he couldn’t even remember the title.

“I didn’t know why I wrote it,” Sherlock admitted. “Or why I risked going into your home and leaving it there. I didn’t think you’d want to keep going after that day. I could read it off your face. That you had given up that night.”

John didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t. It seemed like so long ago, yet it had been only some weeks ago. He had been so close. He hadn’t dreamed that night. No haunting nightmares of the war, no dreams that made him ache for his life before the war. There had been nothing. And then he woke up and someone was there. 

“I wanted you to keep going,” Sherlock continued. “I left you the note so you could have something else to think about. A distraction. I kept coming back to see if you were still there, and you were. That night I was sick…you helped me, you even let me blindfold you! I…”

It was dark, but John could clearly see the small smile paying on Sherlock’s face.

“You became interesting. I kept giving you glimpses of me, just to see what you would do, and then suddenly you were out investigating, connecting things, trying to get at the bottom of it all. And I found I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t turn away.

“Everyone in the Hive has a reason to be there. Most are survivors of Moriarty, people seeking revenge. Everyone is there not because they owe me something or because they just happened to get involved, but because they get something out of it.  That is how Mycroft knows they won’t betray us…but you…you have nothing.”

The words stabbed at him. John couldn’t breathe. He didn’t know what to say, what to do.

“I believe in you, John. I see…something in you that I can’t walk away from. You’ve become my own distraction. I got you to join me so you could have a reason to keep going. After years of going after Moriarty…I don’t know what I will do when I finally get to him. I-“

“Stop.”

John was trembling, hands fisted at his sides. Sherlock breathed nervously and John wondered if he had ever talked so much about things like this. He didn’t think so. 

“Stop, please. I…You have obviously been doing this for so long that you are desperate for…anything.”

Sherlock made a frustrated noise and ran his hand through his hair. “John-“

“No, wait. I…Sherlock, I will help you. I promise I will. You are right, I have nothing left. That note was the only reason I decided to live another day, you’re right. And I will gladly give what I have left to help you. But please don’t expect so much of me, I…I won’t always be able to keep up with you or your wonderful, brilliant mind. I…won’t. I will do everything I can, I promise, but please…don’t-“

“John-“

Sherlock’s phone rang again and John felt like screaming.

Reluctantly, the detective grabbed his phone and looked at the screen. Then at John.

“Just answer it,” John breathed.

Sherlock did. “What is it now?”

“Well, where is it now, then?” he demanded, turning around to pace around the narrow space. John watched. Clearly, the conversation was over. He felt frustrated and relieved at the same time. With what he knew now, John felt scared. Scared that whatever Sherlock had seen in him had not been real, that he wouldn’t be able to do what he was supposed to do and Sherlock would realize this and leave.

John watched as the taller man barked down the phone, not really paying attention at what was being discussed. The distraction was slowly clearing his head, he felt he could breathe again.

He would try. Sherlock had been right, he had given up that day, but he wouldn’t make his effort to save him go to waste. Maybe he wouldn’t be the best or meet the man’s expectations on him, but right now he hadn’t anything else in his life. Sherlock and Moriarty’s war was the only thing keeping him going, and so he was damn well going to do his best. After that…well, he wasn’t going to think about it. Not now.

With this newfound determination, John set his jaw and straightened his back, waiting for Sherlock’s next move.

“We’re on our way,” Sherlock decided before shoving his phone back into his pocket. “John, we’re-“

_Huh._

“Yes?” John prompted at Sherlock’s gaping face.

Sherlock did his best not to take a step back. The man in front of him had changed his whole…being in the time it took him to do a quick phone call. Sherlock huffed out a laugh. He would never understand how this man’s mind worked.

“The phone has moved.”

“Then we better go after it."


	8. Pills

“Roland Kerr Further Education College,” Sherlock breathed as he slipped out of the car, John right behind him.

“Do you people really have waiting cars all around the city?” the doctor asked, watching the car pulling away as quietly and inconspicuously as it had arrived.

Sherlock smirked but offered no answer. “Come on, John.”

The street was dark and empty and John was quick to adapt his eyesight to the shadows, ready to act were anything want to suddenly lunge at them. Swiftly, both men made their way across the dark parking lot until they were faced with twin, three-story buildings. The edifices mirrored each other perfectly, both in structure and aging walls, and John wondered what they could have held within their walls originally. It was obvious the place had been closed for the day, but there remained a few lights which granted John and Sherlock enough view of the area to manoeuvre around.

“The killer is inside one of these buildings,” Sherlock informed, gaze flicking from top to bottom of the building as if the walls would give him any clue as to which building currently hid their enemy. From what John had seen from the detective, the walls could very well tell him everything there was to know and more, but at the taller man’s frustrated sigh, though, John knew that was not the case this time.

“We could split up and-“

“Absolutely not.”

John looked back to the buildings. “If we go into the wrong one, he’ll get away before we can even finish looking in the first building.”

“If he wanted to escape, he would have done so already.”

“He?” 

“Pretty sure, yes.” Sherlock offered no more information on this as he started towards the building on the right. “It is unlikely he has any backup. Most of Moriarty’s men work alone, yet I don’t think he would risk staying here if he knew someone’s after him.”

“You think he knows you’re coming?”

Sherlock checked his phone and walked towards the door. “They shouldn’t know I’m back in London, unless our spy has told them already.”

“Spy!” John followed him, but the detective didn’t make a move. “What spy?”

“We have one of Moriarty’s spiders inside the Hive. It doesn’t matter, we have one of ours inside his web.”

John frowned, “Is that supposed to be a good thing?”

Sherlock smirked. 

Deciding this was not the time, John resisted from pressing on and instead turned to the buildings once again. “Then there’s no problem in splitting. It will save us time and give us some kind of surprise element. Whoever finds the killer first, quickly lets the other know--somehow--without him noticing.”

Sherlock barely considered the idea, “Too risky.”

“Or we could go in together and hope the killer isn’t making his escape from the other building while we search the wrong place.”

Sherlock grimaced.

“Can’t _you_ call for your own backup anyway?”

Sherlock shook his head and waved his hand as if brushing the topic away. “Alright, we’ll split,” he said as he slid his hand inside the inner pocket of his coat, searching. “Did you get your gun back from Mycroft?”

John nodded, reaching for the press of cold metal against his skin.

The detective nodded and, after some rummaging, pulled out a couple of rings and showed them to John.

The golden bands looked simple enough in the dim light, the only easily recognizable aspect of them being the small gem each band sported in the middle. John startled as Sherlock took the doctor’s hand and carefully slipped one of the rings onto his finger.

“Wha-“

“These are silent alerts,” Sherlock explained as he slipped the other ring onto his own finger. “Should you find yourself in need of help, press the stone on the ring.”

Sherlock pressed the gem on his ring and John’s instantly lighted up with a weak red light. John watched in rapt interest as Sherlock slipped the ring off and on again, resetting John’s ring back to darkness.

John gaped.

“Prototypes, but should be more efficient than speed dial, I hope,” Sherlock smirked, then shoved John towards the other building’s way. “Now, go.”

Before John could begin to wonder how Sherlock happened to have an alert ring that fitted him perfectly inside his coat pocket, he was already making his way into the left building. The halls were deserted and most lights were off. Every small sound bounced off the walls and John winced with each door he caused to screech.

John walked swiftly through the silent hall, making sure to properly peek at every corner of each room before continuing on to the next one. He was just done checking around the fifth classroom when a loud thump reached his ear. It came from further into the hallway, he was sure, towards which he promptly jogged.

A soft groan redirected John’s attention to one of the lighted rooms, and, drawing his gun up, he pressed his back against the wall next to the door. He took a deep breath and then peeked inside.

After the dark corridors, the room seemed too bright and John’s eye squinted a bit. There were rows of long desks framed by their corresponding seats, and after a quick scan of the room, John stepped inside, quick to follow the soft, pained groans that came from the very front of the room.

Sprawled on the floor was a man writhing in pain, surrounded by cleaning products and accessories that quickly gave John the man’s business in the building so late at night. There was no blood or sign of any injury, which quickly drew John’s attention towards the janitor’s gasping mouth. He looked like he was choking, but before he could properly reach the man, a gun was pressed into the back of his head.

“Step away from him,” a voice ordered, and John raised his hands to the air. Whoever was behind him, a man by the sound of their voice, quickly swatted the gun out of John’s hand. The weapon clattered to the floor and John saw as it was afterwards kicked out of his reach.

He inwardly cursed.

“Well, well, I was not expecting you to be out in the field so soon.”

John squared his jaw and offered only silence.

The man behind him chuckled and lowered his gun, allowing John the chance to turn and take the man by the collar. It took him less than a couple of seconds, though, to realize his spin had landed him on the floor instead.

The stranger crouched next to him and pressed John’s head against the spinning floor, clearly enjoying watching as the doctor tried and failed to remove his hand from him. Words slurred past the man’s crooked teeth and circled John’s quickly receding consciousness. With flailing limbs, trembling lips, and mute screams for help, John fell unconscious.

 

 

 

The lights burned John’s eyes and the smallest sound or movement pounded inside his head and made him dizzy in a way that couldn’t compare to even his worst hangover.

It took all of John’s will to turn his head and get a hold of his surroundings. The room came into focus slowly, reminding John of where he was and how he had ended up slumped against one of the desks in the room.

He felt sick.

“Oh, you’re awake already? You’ve not been abusing your pain medication, ‘ave you, doctor?”

John groaned as his body refused to let him sit up. His mind was foggy and his eyes failed to focus properly.

“John H. Watson,” he heard the man say. “I know one man who will be so very pleased to hear of your…promotion.”

There was a scrape of a chair and John’s senses dimmed once more at the intensity of the sound. John felt sick and wished for a moment that unconsciousness would take him again.

“Wakey, wakey, doctor, we haven’t got much time. I hope you don’t mind me taking your wallet. It rather makes the process of introducing ourselves a little more quick.”

The voice rattled John’s mind at its proximity and the doctor made every possible effort to open his eyes once more, finding himself staring back at a pair of circles of light. Glasses?

“I’ll be keeping them, as well as your weapon. You won’t need them anymore after all.”

A chill coursed John’s body at the man’s implication and he growled, trying to pull his body as up as it would go. The man sniggered at his efforts.

“No, no, doctor, don’t worry, I won’t kill you.”

There was another shuffle as the man seated himself in front of John’s struggling body. John took the chance and closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in as much air as his chest would take. His mind complained but allowed him a blessed moment of silence and as much clarity as his drugged system would permit him.

“I will only talk to you and then you will kill yourself.”

John thought of Sherlock and the reasons why he hadn’t come get him yet. He wondered if the man had gotten himself in trouble, or if he had just decided to leave him behind, thinking he wasn’t worth the trouble saving.

It took John several seconds to realize the man was talking to him. John sluggishly turned his attention to what was being said but found he couldn’t put together the sounds in any kind of coherent form. 

John felt nauseous and wanted nothing more than to fall asleep and never wake up again. The floor was cold, his whole body was cold, and he wished he could find enough will in him to do something about it. He was a doctor, he knew exactly what was happening and what his best course of action could be, but John found he couldn’t care less.

The man’s speech about pills banged at his now numb mind and he soon became annoyed by it. Why wouldn’t he shut up? What did he care about bottles?

“Look at you, giving up already.”

John frowned and half-opened his eyes. There were two small bottles resting on the floor between them, each with several identical pills inside. The man’s shabby hands held two pills, presumably one from each container.

He pressed them into John’s right hand.

“You can end it all right now. You can be free.”

John blinked a few times before looking down to his palm and the two small capsules resting there.

“You don’t even have to play the game if you don’t feel like it. I ain’t stopping you.”

John’s hand, he realized, was trembling. His whole body was trembling in painful ways, and John found the temptation to end it all very agreeable.

“Wounded Dr. Watson, what else do you have to offer? Has the war taken all your usefulness in this lifetime already?”

John clutched the pills between his palm and growled. As much as he wanted to deny it, it was as if the thoughts and inner voices that had been plaguing him since the day he was shot had taken human form. The man kept talking and hitting John harder than he dared admit, reminding him of all the nightmare-fuelled nights and lonely days when he had contemplated his options at the bottom of the barrel of his gun.

Not fully aware of his own body’s actions, John barely registered the tip of his tongue making contact with the pills. His mind was a foggy and heavy just like his limbs. A red light illuminated the small gem on his ring and John felt himself startle painfully.

The world spun. In the distance a gun was fired, and the darkness consumed John again.

**Author's Note:**

> My first serious try at writing something for this fandom.. If you notice any mistake, please let me know! Update frequency will depend on how much work college decides to throw at me D:
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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